Sam knew I was going away. A decent dog knows these things, it's part of the job. A dumb dog goes hungry. When the dog ascertains what’s going on without being told, it takes corrective actions.
Sam knows when I’m leaving, even before I start messing with my gear. Sam always knows when I’m on my way home.
Even when I board a plane in Singapore bound for Seattle.
Sam starts pacing, waiting for my key in the door, my bags to hit the floor and the one-time permission he has to put his paws on my chest and get a full-body scratch.
He’s always well taken care of. Always has a babysitter arranged for by the agency. Cloris has a hand, it seems, in nearly every aspect of my life, yet I hardly ever see her.
It’s a mission thing with her. Hard. Hard as fucking nails. I’ve bathed with her, I’ve slept with her, but trust me, the only time you touch Cloris is when it’s business.
She needed her back scrubbed ‘cause there’s oil and blood all over it and we were stuck in one tub ‘cause we got 10 gallons of hot water and 30 minutes and we slept together ‘cause we’d been in a firefight for ten hours and after we won we wanted sleep, and a hot bath.
Don’t get me wrong.
Cloris is witchy gorgeous, a trainwreck. Cloris is seven deadly sins packed into a 45 year-old minimalist frame that could disembowel you before you hit the ground.
Test–tube conceived, institutionally reared and Mossad-bred, Harvard and Eton educated and agency trained, Cloris designed her first weapons system, composed her first symphony and got her period simultaneously.
Cloris always was born with deep green eyes…deep as a philosopher’s stone, mysterious as an unfinished symphony, a long night in darkness, a vintage vague and capricious, a gypsy melody come from the secret folds of consciousness.
Jesus. Cloris would snap my neck if she heard me.
But yes. I confess. Cloris is beautiful.
Besides her savagely jade eyes and the deliberately rapacious chestnut curls teasing her golden olive skin, her strong, swan-like, breathless neck falls between (how can I say this, I’m already in deep shit) a couple of the most luscious…thriving…island-like…oh, my God I am so dead.
Cloris can read anybody’s mind.
I know what you’re thinking. Heck, we know a little about each other by now…you want to know if I have the hots for Cloris. Don’t blame you. I’ll explain:
I’d be ape-shit nuts if I didn’t…except for two things. I signed the dotted line and she has, I believe, a boyfriend. An Isreali pilot who is somewhat of a hero.
I can’t be a hero. Neither can Cloris. We do our jobs, we go home and that’s it. We’re a team. We fight for the money. I cannot imagine the damage we do to some lives. It is sometimes unbearable.
I get over it. That’s what makes me dangerous.
Orchids are fun to grow. Grandkids are fun to play with. I do both things and adore them both. I guess I get bored. I figure some ideas are good things.
In my mind, I can draw an arc between some of the great ideas of the Greeks and some of the great ideas of today. Those fools had some of the dumbest ideas back then, but the ideal of a representative democracy is worth a struggle.
If it comes to a fight, heck, that’s what I was born to do. My mentors were John Wayne and Jesus Christ, both equal, but great…like me…like you…like us. I have never needed to be told the right thing to do.
You shouldn’t either. If you do, it’s too late.
Me and Sam took our snacks out to the deck: I had some Maui Vodka on Oregon Rainwater ice cubes with Dungeoness crab and Estrella Farms goat cheese on clay-baked sprouted grain crackers. Man, thas’ some chill grub.
Sam crunched up lamb and rice biscuits dipped in venison gravy. He nosed the deck and smiled at me with his tongue.
We were a couple of happy cats until the phone rang and a horn honked at the front gate at the same time. I wondered what parallel universe I had dropped into and why this happens every time I get prized victuals adjacent to my jaw.
Sam glanced at me, a crumb hanging off his jowl.
He shot for the gate in a rage. As far as Sam was concerned, anybody at the end of his teeth was in grave danger, as long as they were on this side of the locked gate.
Fortunately for everyone concerned, the shiny new Land Rover waited patiently in the driveway its engine running.
It was Cloris on the phone.
“I sent you the Felton Twins. Remember?” She hung up.
‘Damn her. She always does this to me’ I thought to myself.
‘How am I going to get packed with those kids around?’
I slowly smiled, reached for my Vodka and popped some crab.
‘This is the Felton Twins we’re talkin’ ‘bout.’ I thought to me.
I jumped up and made for the gate. Sam’s hair was on end…he raced to and fro as though facing the mightiest dragon of his career. He had the scent and wouldn’t let go.
I had the scent before I got anywhere near the gate. The Felton Twins waved from the Land Rover, blowing kisses and bouncing anxiously.
I fumbled for the key, disappointed by all the excitement I felt as I welcomed The Twins onto the property. They parked the ‘Rover and jumped out to greet me.
Hugs and kisses most felonious all ‘round.
I forgot momentarily what I was doing or where I was as Mia licked my cheek and Mya hugged me with her pelvis. Sam whined, the mighty wolf had no idea how to respond.
For my part, my hands were full of girl. I knew.
The notorious Felton Twins…bold…certain…very web-friendly: if they weren’t contracted to the agency I might wonder. They raced for the hot tub, ripping off tank tops, bras, shoes, shorts and panties in a most ungracious display of customary feminine reserve…but I’m widely tolerant.
I took this opportunity to bust out gear. A car would be here for me at 6am, come Hell. high water or the Felton Twins. I would be ready. Forty years on the job.
But even Gunga Din wasn’t ready for the Felton Twins. I pulled gear out of a fortified closet and spread it on the living room floor.
The utility pack: I would curse whomever designed this thing, except it was myself…two compasses in a pouch, a multi-tool, two throwing knives; one small, one large, a Glock .380 with silencer (if you need a knife, its already too late), a S&W .44 Mag, a very powerful flashlight, two-way radios, bear spray, Mace, headlamp/batteries/charger, two cell phones, Satellite phone, GPS, digital recorder, first aid kit, a water bottle, another Glock .380 and four clips, two stun grenades, two folding knives and a second water bottle, binoculars and a night-vision scope.
It would seem funny… unless I were after you.
Sam slowly trudged out to the hot tub to keep a friendly eye on the girls. The Felton twins may only be twenty years old, but they have forty years of experience between them. I pulled my short pump shotgun out of the closet, zipped in its case, along with an ammo box full of cartridges and clips and cleaning kits.
I packed a cargo duffel with clothes, maps, rope and grappling hook, boots and rain gear, a box of chocolates for Cloris (you never know), a towel and my Dopp kit.
Good gear can help us do our job immensely, but we have to be effective without it. At any rate, it is dangerous to lose this stuff. Every piece is evidence.
Nothing says war like steel, but work done behind the lines is mostly quiet work. Assembling scraps of intel, calling and meeting people, doing assignments swiftly and silently, with deadly force, if needed.
I surveyed my gear with a Quartermaster’s pride as Mia and Mya sauntered through the front door, completely naked, wet and steaming, dripping on the tile as they held hands and giggled at me.
Grinning through grilled choppers, they showed off their absolutely flawless feminine forms, pairs and quads of everything a sensible human craves, devoid of body hair below their scintillant blond tresses; breathtaking…I…I..
“Colonel Mars? Are you okay?” It was Mia.
“We wanted to show you our new tattoos!”
The Feltons spun around in unison, bent over and stuck out their jiggly little butts. My heart kicked hard and my man wrestled with his measure. My mind wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“What do you think?”
My mind staggered, alone at night in Baghdad. Lost.
Mia was on the left, her right butt cheek featured a pink and red heart with an arrow through it pointed at Mya’s left butt cheek on the right, which displayed the same elegant heart with an arrow pointed at Mia’s little patootie.
They stood up, spun around and gave each other a deep kiss and took off to the bedroom. Sam stood there, his shaggy head slightly lowered, a sheepish, idiot grin on his lip he followed them with his wolf eyes.
And then followed them.
I wondered what kind of grin was on my lip as I reached for my drink. It would take another stiff one to settle my nerves.. I settled into my big chair and put on some Rachmaninoff to cover the sounds of the twins’ furious lovemaking.
I sucked at my drink and went over my lists mentally, occasionally curious what Sam was up to. I looked through Sam’s eyes, tried to see what Sam was watching, sort of an old Indian trick my Dad taught me when I was a kid.
Some head of security Sam will prove to be after tonight.
The second tall vodka put me down pretty good so I decided to sleep in my chair for a few hours, until the twins came in to do yoga. Due to a fortunate Karmic impasse, I’d neglected to turn off the lights.
I slowly fell asleep watching Mia and Mya replicate each furry animal in their repertoire, their graceful, pure bodies straining, releasing the fragrance, alluring, hypnotising…
Cloris is going to fucking kill me.
Sure enough, at 5:30 am, Cloris let herself in through the double-locked door, and as I slowly awoke she stood over me, looking down at me from between her breasts, her fiery jade eyes piercing her cascading chestnut locks.
Cloris chuckled.
I sat up and pulled the blanket around my naked self, but a twin on either side of me murmured and turned over to wrap their arms around me for warmth. I was locked in boobs.
“I…I..”
“Aye, carumba, hot stuff.” Cloris grinned.
“Get some clothes on. I’ll make coffee.”
Sam knows when I’m leaving, even before I start messing with my gear. Sam always knows when I’m on my way home.
Even when I board a plane in Singapore bound for Seattle.
Sam starts pacing, waiting for my key in the door, my bags to hit the floor and the one-time permission he has to put his paws on my chest and get a full-body scratch.
He’s always well taken care of. Always has a babysitter arranged for by the agency. Cloris has a hand, it seems, in nearly every aspect of my life, yet I hardly ever see her.
It’s a mission thing with her. Hard. Hard as fucking nails. I’ve bathed with her, I’ve slept with her, but trust me, the only time you touch Cloris is when it’s business.
She needed her back scrubbed ‘cause there’s oil and blood all over it and we were stuck in one tub ‘cause we got 10 gallons of hot water and 30 minutes and we slept together ‘cause we’d been in a firefight for ten hours and after we won we wanted sleep, and a hot bath.
Don’t get me wrong.
Cloris is witchy gorgeous, a trainwreck. Cloris is seven deadly sins packed into a 45 year-old minimalist frame that could disembowel you before you hit the ground.
Test–tube conceived, institutionally reared and Mossad-bred, Harvard and Eton educated and agency trained, Cloris designed her first weapons system, composed her first symphony and got her period simultaneously.
Cloris always was born with deep green eyes…deep as a philosopher’s stone, mysterious as an unfinished symphony, a long night in darkness, a vintage vague and capricious, a gypsy melody come from the secret folds of consciousness.
Jesus. Cloris would snap my neck if she heard me.
But yes. I confess. Cloris is beautiful.
Besides her savagely jade eyes and the deliberately rapacious chestnut curls teasing her golden olive skin, her strong, swan-like, breathless neck falls between (how can I say this, I’m already in deep shit) a couple of the most luscious…thriving…island-like…oh, my God I am so dead.
Cloris can read anybody’s mind.
I know what you’re thinking. Heck, we know a little about each other by now…you want to know if I have the hots for Cloris. Don’t blame you. I’ll explain:
I’d be ape-shit nuts if I didn’t…except for two things. I signed the dotted line and she has, I believe, a boyfriend. An Isreali pilot who is somewhat of a hero.
I can’t be a hero. Neither can Cloris. We do our jobs, we go home and that’s it. We’re a team. We fight for the money. I cannot imagine the damage we do to some lives. It is sometimes unbearable.
I get over it. That’s what makes me dangerous.
Orchids are fun to grow. Grandkids are fun to play with. I do both things and adore them both. I guess I get bored. I figure some ideas are good things.
In my mind, I can draw an arc between some of the great ideas of the Greeks and some of the great ideas of today. Those fools had some of the dumbest ideas back then, but the ideal of a representative democracy is worth a struggle.
If it comes to a fight, heck, that’s what I was born to do. My mentors were John Wayne and Jesus Christ, both equal, but great…like me…like you…like us. I have never needed to be told the right thing to do.
You shouldn’t either. If you do, it’s too late.
Me and Sam took our snacks out to the deck: I had some Maui Vodka on Oregon Rainwater ice cubes with Dungeoness crab and Estrella Farms goat cheese on clay-baked sprouted grain crackers. Man, thas’ some chill grub.
Sam crunched up lamb and rice biscuits dipped in venison gravy. He nosed the deck and smiled at me with his tongue.
We were a couple of happy cats until the phone rang and a horn honked at the front gate at the same time. I wondered what parallel universe I had dropped into and why this happens every time I get prized victuals adjacent to my jaw.
Sam glanced at me, a crumb hanging off his jowl.
He shot for the gate in a rage. As far as Sam was concerned, anybody at the end of his teeth was in grave danger, as long as they were on this side of the locked gate.
Fortunately for everyone concerned, the shiny new Land Rover waited patiently in the driveway its engine running.
It was Cloris on the phone.
“I sent you the Felton Twins. Remember?” She hung up.
‘Damn her. She always does this to me’ I thought to myself.
‘How am I going to get packed with those kids around?’
I slowly smiled, reached for my Vodka and popped some crab.
‘This is the Felton Twins we’re talkin’ ‘bout.’ I thought to me.
I jumped up and made for the gate. Sam’s hair was on end…he raced to and fro as though facing the mightiest dragon of his career. He had the scent and wouldn’t let go.
I had the scent before I got anywhere near the gate. The Felton Twins waved from the Land Rover, blowing kisses and bouncing anxiously.
I fumbled for the key, disappointed by all the excitement I felt as I welcomed The Twins onto the property. They parked the ‘Rover and jumped out to greet me.
Hugs and kisses most felonious all ‘round.
I forgot momentarily what I was doing or where I was as Mia licked my cheek and Mya hugged me with her pelvis. Sam whined, the mighty wolf had no idea how to respond.
For my part, my hands were full of girl. I knew.
The notorious Felton Twins…bold…certain…very web-friendly: if they weren’t contracted to the agency I might wonder. They raced for the hot tub, ripping off tank tops, bras, shoes, shorts and panties in a most ungracious display of customary feminine reserve…but I’m widely tolerant.
I took this opportunity to bust out gear. A car would be here for me at 6am, come Hell. high water or the Felton Twins. I would be ready. Forty years on the job.
But even Gunga Din wasn’t ready for the Felton Twins. I pulled gear out of a fortified closet and spread it on the living room floor.
The utility pack: I would curse whomever designed this thing, except it was myself…two compasses in a pouch, a multi-tool, two throwing knives; one small, one large, a Glock .380 with silencer (if you need a knife, its already too late), a S&W .44 Mag, a very powerful flashlight, two-way radios, bear spray, Mace, headlamp/batteries/charger, two cell phones, Satellite phone, GPS, digital recorder, first aid kit, a water bottle, another Glock .380 and four clips, two stun grenades, two folding knives and a second water bottle, binoculars and a night-vision scope.
It would seem funny… unless I were after you.
Sam slowly trudged out to the hot tub to keep a friendly eye on the girls. The Felton twins may only be twenty years old, but they have forty years of experience between them. I pulled my short pump shotgun out of the closet, zipped in its case, along with an ammo box full of cartridges and clips and cleaning kits.
I packed a cargo duffel with clothes, maps, rope and grappling hook, boots and rain gear, a box of chocolates for Cloris (you never know), a towel and my Dopp kit.
Good gear can help us do our job immensely, but we have to be effective without it. At any rate, it is dangerous to lose this stuff. Every piece is evidence.
Nothing says war like steel, but work done behind the lines is mostly quiet work. Assembling scraps of intel, calling and meeting people, doing assignments swiftly and silently, with deadly force, if needed.
I surveyed my gear with a Quartermaster’s pride as Mia and Mya sauntered through the front door, completely naked, wet and steaming, dripping on the tile as they held hands and giggled at me.
Grinning through grilled choppers, they showed off their absolutely flawless feminine forms, pairs and quads of everything a sensible human craves, devoid of body hair below their scintillant blond tresses; breathtaking…I…I..
“Colonel Mars? Are you okay?” It was Mia.
“We wanted to show you our new tattoos!”
The Feltons spun around in unison, bent over and stuck out their jiggly little butts. My heart kicked hard and my man wrestled with his measure. My mind wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“What do you think?”
My mind staggered, alone at night in Baghdad. Lost.
Mia was on the left, her right butt cheek featured a pink and red heart with an arrow through it pointed at Mya’s left butt cheek on the right, which displayed the same elegant heart with an arrow pointed at Mia’s little patootie.
They stood up, spun around and gave each other a deep kiss and took off to the bedroom. Sam stood there, his shaggy head slightly lowered, a sheepish, idiot grin on his lip he followed them with his wolf eyes.
And then followed them.
I wondered what kind of grin was on my lip as I reached for my drink. It would take another stiff one to settle my nerves.. I settled into my big chair and put on some Rachmaninoff to cover the sounds of the twins’ furious lovemaking.
I sucked at my drink and went over my lists mentally, occasionally curious what Sam was up to. I looked through Sam’s eyes, tried to see what Sam was watching, sort of an old Indian trick my Dad taught me when I was a kid.
Some head of security Sam will prove to be after tonight.
The second tall vodka put me down pretty good so I decided to sleep in my chair for a few hours, until the twins came in to do yoga. Due to a fortunate Karmic impasse, I’d neglected to turn off the lights.
I slowly fell asleep watching Mia and Mya replicate each furry animal in their repertoire, their graceful, pure bodies straining, releasing the fragrance, alluring, hypnotising…
Cloris is going to fucking kill me.
Sure enough, at 5:30 am, Cloris let herself in through the double-locked door, and as I slowly awoke she stood over me, looking down at me from between her breasts, her fiery jade eyes piercing her cascading chestnut locks.
Cloris chuckled.
I sat up and pulled the blanket around my naked self, but a twin on either side of me murmured and turned over to wrap their arms around me for warmth. I was locked in boobs.
“I…I..”
“Aye, carumba, hot stuff.” Cloris grinned.
“Get some clothes on. I’ll make coffee.”
1 comment:
This story is so wonderful. So fun to read. I laughed aloud many times.
To truly know Mr.Bob Mars is to know this reality you tell of. The world in which he exists is alphabetical, as opposed to numerical, and this gives him the advantage to his shape shifting and storytelling. If only he would share this alphabetic formula with the world. As it stands he seems to be the only one able to grasp the alphabetical concepts. Perhaps pioneering them to the future generations is his plan. He is a man about the universe. Thanks for letting us have a glimpse.
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